It was one of thosestormy freakishly difficult-to-describe-right nights.

The ping of an incoming email brings welcome distraction. It’s my buddy, the deposed king of Burundi, popping in for a chat. The lives of kings are clearly more complicated than those of writers. Frank (his Burundian name is difficult for foreigners to pronounce, so he goes by Frank) has a problem. He’s been trying to move $150 million out of Burundi and into a North American bank.

I’m honored he’s selected me, a little-known author of modest means, to assist in this endeavor. Surelythere are others better qualified to help you? I’d replied to his earlier email. Au contraire, his new message assures me. Apparently I am the very one he most trusts to help solve his dilemma.

He also has an explanation for various factual errors concerning his homeland that I’d pointed out in his earlier email. He’s been living in exile—staying with his brother-in-law in Burkina Faso. His situation there is quite intolerable, which makes it hard for him to keep up with things back home. (Living with my brother-in-law would drive me batty too. I’m prepared to cut him some slack there.)

Back to it. I reject blusterynight as being too … blustery. Then, another email—as if I don’t have enough to do, juggling adjectives and global bank accounts!

Dear Judy, it says. Do you suffer the shame of erectile dysfunction?

I do not, in fact, suffer from ED. But the question prompts me to ponder how many males are saddled with the name Judy. I pose this question to my search engine. It picks up Judys galore—Judy Garland, Judy Blume, Judy Collins, even Judge Judy—none of whom appear to have a Y chromosome, much less an underperforming asset.

I begin to draft a response about
better targeted marketing when a new message arrives. Frank has had second thoughts. Rather than bothering
me with opening a new account, he suggests simply sending him my bank account number, SSN and birth date so he can deposit the money directly into my account. These African kings really know
how to get things done.

Still, I’m reluctant to share such personal information with the king of Burundi when I haven’t even told him about my possible penile inadequacy. (On the other hand, he may be sympathetic if he’s underendowed himself. Why else would he be living with his brother-in-law?)

There’s just so much to consider. But deadlines loom while I dillydally with kings and their cojones. In the end, I decide simply to level with him:

Dear Frank,
It’s a dark and stormy night
here. I’d like to help—but I’m not
up to it.

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Baihley Grandison is the assistant editor of Writer’s Digest and a freelance writer. Follow her on Twitter @baihleyg, where she mostly tweets about writing (Team Oxford Comma!), food (HUMMUS FOR PRESIDENT, PEOPLE), and Random Conversations With Her Mother.